Chapter Fourteen
HARRISON’S RIDICULOUS VEHICLE IS PARALLEL parked just outside the cafe, and he offers up the purple PT Cruiser once more. After living in and around the County for most of my life, I can tell where he’s headed after about two turns, but I let him continue like it’s going to be a surprise.
However, on the way to our presumed destination, he pulls over at a side street in front of a small lot whose only features are a lime-green chip truck and a snow-covered plastic picnic table.
I look over at him, and he announces, Well, we’ll need snacks since the barbecue situation wasn’t meant to be.
I met the owner at karaoke night, and we bonded, he explains.
Remember that guy that sang ‘Mr. Brightside’?
Anyway, his name is Jeremy, and he and I are going to go snowmobiling sometime.
I think that’s what I agreed to, but you may recall that I was a bit drunk at the time.
However, he did say that he makes the best chips and to text him anytime if I ever wanted to try them, and he really stressed the ‘anytime’ part.
He said he lives across the street. I think maybe that blue house over there?
Wait, is it Jeremy Franks? I ask. I went to high school with that guy—he was in the same grade as my brother. They hung out sometimes. I remember that he mostly got stoned in the men’s washroom, but he was nice, I guess. Or at least, he wasn’t memorably rude.
Well, he sang the Killers with a lot of heart and is apparently now a successful small-business owner, so let’s hope these chips deliver, he says and gets out of the car.
Sure enough, at the window is Jeremy from high school, still recognizable to me as a tall, lanky kid with shaggy hair and freckles, though his skin has cleared up, and his high school stoner aesthetic has calmed down significantly.
Looking back, I can’t believe my parents ever let him hang out with Aaron, who wasn’t able to eat poppy seeds, lest he fail a drug test and ruin his promising hockey career.
Jeremy gives Harrison an enthusiastic wave and then spots me, and I watch his face go from confusion to recognition.
Kate? he says. Harrison, I didn’t know all of this was to impress Kate Donnelly. I’d have warned you not to waste your time. Takes more than fries to impress her.
Well, you did say they were the best, says Harrison. Jeremy presents us with two little white cardboard boxes filled with very hot, very crispy fries, each with a tiny wooden fork. They smell so good that I am willing to concede that maybe Jeremy is onto something with this new business venture.
Am I so hard to impress? I say, handing over a twenty-dollar bill.
Already paid for, he says. And yes. In high school, like, four people asked you to prom, and you said no. I remember because I was one of them. No hard feelings, but if I’d have known fries were the way to win you over…
You were my little brother’s friend, so it would have been weird at the time if I had said yes! And I didn’t even go to prom because I went to see a concert instead, I say. I was not a ‘prom’ person.
Oh, I remember—and who did you see? asks Jeremy, resting his chin on his hands with a mischievous glint in his eye. Harrison is watching us with some amusement, but mostly contentment as he uses the tiny fork to fling fries into his mouth.
Irrelevant, I say.
Now I need to know, says Harrison. Would Charlie know? I could text him.
I sigh. Yes, he absolutely would. Fine. I went with my parents and Aaron to Shania Twain’s farewell tour, I say.
At the time, we really thought it was our last chance to see her!
My dad was and remains a little in love with her.
My mom, too, for that matter. Also, possibly my brother, because how we got him, at sixteen years of age, to go with us is anyone’s guess.
He was one hundred percent in love with Shania, confirms Jeremy. He knew, like, every song.
Honestly, who isn’t a little bit in love with her? says Harrison. Anyway, we have to keep on going to our next stop here, but thanks again for these! I’ll see you on Thursday for karaoke!
He’s coming back? I whisper as we walk back to the car. That’s great! I wondered how many would.
Oh yeah, he’s got a lot more Killers songs where that came from, says Harrison as he struggles to find a home for his fries. They don’t fit into a cup holder, so I take his and keep it with mine on my lap.
Thanks, he says. Anyway, Jeremy is apparently courting a local young lady who also loves karaoke, and last week’s date went really well, so they’re doing it again this week.
She was the one who sang ‘Call Me Maybe.’ Not the best voice, perhaps, but lots of heart.
Real commitment to the spirit of 2011 Carly Rae Jepsen, he adds as he backs out of the small, abandoned lot where Jeremy’s Fresh Fries has made its home.
Do you moonlight as an American Idol judge in your spare time? I ask, raising an eyebrow. You seem to have a detailed log of all performances saved up there. Speaking of which, do you want to MC again on Thursday? I think you might be the selling feature for that event.
Sure, sure, he says. And it was a night full of memorable performances, I suppose. But Rodney should really get up there if he wants to expand his DJing business. He needs to get over his stage fright.
How on earth do you know these things? I ask. You spoke to all of these people for maybe five minutes.
He shrugs and keeps his eyes on the road ahead. The falling snow is very light, but I can tell he still has to focus. When I met you, you offered me a job at about the twenty-minute mark, he says with a small grin.
Point taken, I sigh. If you’re actually here in the County to, like, run some kind of long con and steal everyone’s money, we’re all screwed. You should have been a salesman or something.
Nah, wouldn’t work. First, I think people find the accent endearing—between the Wiggles, Steve Irwin (RIP), and Bluey, we Aussies really did the legwork to build trust amongst tiny North American children. I think you’re conditioned to listen to this accent at this point.
We pull into a large, empty parking lot, which would have been maybe concerning had I not known exactly where we were. He parks and turns to give me his attention now that he’s not navigating through snowflakes.
Second, I really like listening to people’s stories.
I think it’s easy to tell when someone really cares about what you’re saying versus just humouring you.
So, I reel them in with the accent and then finish the job with my active listening skills, and that’s how I acquire all the state secrets, he finishes, grabbing his box of fries.
Ah, a spy. Knew you were too good to be true. I punctuate the thought with a mouthful of french fry. Though, truth be told, the spy thing is not a turnoff either.
I’ll keep that in mind, he says and puts his hood up over the toque he’s wearing and then offers up the green scarf. Sure you don’t want this back?
Nah, Steph’s making me a new one as we speak, I say.
Which is true. After our text exchange the other day, I commissioned a new one and told her to have Hazel pick the colours.
I am both nervous and excited about what the result will be.
You’ll likely meet her and her daughter, Hazel, on Saturday, actually. They said they’d stop by.
Well, big fan of her work. He flips the scarf around his neck. This is the warmest item of clothing that I own, and it has the added bonus of giving me zero rashes.
Have you been here before? I nod toward the front windshield. It’s slowly becoming covered in snowflakes, but I can still see the water in the distance.
No, I haven’t. And I’ve never seen snow on a beach before. Absolutely wild concept. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks. Shall we?
He grabs a blanket from the back of his car and wraps himself in it as we walk down a path that cuts through a copse of trees.
Are you really that cold?
I mean, you know that the honest answer is yes, but also, this is for us to sit on. It’s in the back because I took Milo to the dog park yesterday. Wait—you’re not allergic, are you? he asks, turning to me.
No allergies to speak of, I say. When we emerge from the trees, Lake Ontario spreads out before us, and to our left are the Sandbanks sand dunes. The scrubby little brushes that usually grow along the ridges in the summer are bare, just sticky twigs that jut out from the light sand hills.
It’ll be warmer if we stay here by the trees, I say. The wind looks bad out there. Harrison puts the old, quilted blanket down, and we settle in with our rapidly cooling french fries.
Nestled next to the pine trees and low to the ground, it’s chilly but bearable. Looking out at the waves on the lake, I can tell that we’d be freezing if we were out on the dunes, pretty as they are.
Must be nice in the summer, he says, looking out at the water.
It is. It’s nice to come early in the morning before the crowds move in. It can get pretty busy, and the water’s often still cold even into July, but there are no dangerous animals to speak of, I add.
Maybe I’ll still be here, then, he says. I’d like to see it.
You really don’t want to go back to BC? I ask.
He shrugs. I always get restless after a while. Even without the breakup, it would have been getting to be around that time anyway, I guess. Lot of cideries out there to explore… or maybe I just haven’t found where I’m meant to be yet.
Do you ever think you’ll go back?
Home? I think about it sometimes. The wine industry there might have me, as I gained some experience in France before I switched back to cider.
And I mean, I do miss my family and quite a few friends out that way.
But we had a bit of a falling-out, my parents and I, before I started travelling abroad.
He’s not eating the rest of his fries, just moving them around with the tiny fork, distracted.
Have you been back? I ask.
I haven’t. My parents and sister all came to visit me for Christmas in the UK, once, a few years back. My mum has a cousin out that way, so it made more sense to visit me when I was there.
I can’t imagine. The furthest I’ve ever lived away from home is being two hours away in Toronto, I say. I mean, I’ve travelled a little bit. I did a semester in Halifax, which was cool. But apparently, I couldn’t stay away for too long.
If my grandad hadn’t passed, I can’t say for certain whether I ever would have left, says Harrison.
My parents sold his property not even weeks later to a developer that had evidently been harassing my grandad for years to sell.
And I mean, sure, what’s a few acres of apples compared to what I now hear is some sort of active seniors’ community resort.
But I never had a chance to even try to salvage the place.
My parents said I was too young. And that’s when I left, he says with a shrug.
I can’t imagine what I would have done if my aunts had sold the cidery off without telling me, I say.
I’m not going to pretend every day since I took over Sparks has been a party.
During my second week, Daniel found me sobbing in the walk-in freezer, and I am not usually one to cry at all, full stop.
It’s not been easy. But I was the first person they called when they wanted to retire, and I don’t regret it for a minute, coming back here.
And I realize that I mean that. I look out at the frigid lake, holding my now-cold fries, and have a profound feeling of gratitude.
Maybe I haven’t had much practice at that these past few months.
This is really nice, he says. Seeing snow on a beach is just as beautiful and trippy as I thought it would be, and I like talking to you. But if we could maybe continue this conversation indoors, I would be eternally grateful, as I cannot feel my toes.
This isn’t hiking boot weather, I say, looking at his feet. If you’re still around in January, our first order of business will be getting you some real snow boots.
I don’t like it, the way I always have to discuss any future plans with him.
A big asterisk over every statement: if you’re still here.
If you decide to stay. I realize, of course, that he came here just for a holiday visit, and it would be ridiculous to make concrete plans based on the events of a two-week period, but I still wish I could forge ahead, both personally and professionally, banking on his presence at the cidery well into the future, not just until Christmas.
With Wassail starting this weekend, it’s almost like a countdown until his maybe departure: three weeks of holiday festivities, the week before Christmas, the timeless, blobby existence that marks the week in between Christmas and New Year’s, and then… who knows what the New Year will bring.